He finished with a brief cough, which turned into a small coughing fit. When he had caught his breath, he went on: “Of course, that only holds true given the nature of the material at hand. For example, the circus tent didn’t burn because it wanted to. No, it burned because it didn’t object to burning. In other words, it didn’t want to catch fire but at the same time it couldn’t resist burning. So in the end it accepted the possibility that it might catch fire. Did it want to? No. Did it object? No. That’s how the worst comes about, for both people and things.”
As Dragan came round, he realized that he was sitting in a small room propped up against a wall. He had hoped to wake to the sight of an angel, but to his chagrin he found himself face to face with the strongman from the circus. Still wearing his mask, the strongman was rambling on about matters that struck Dragan as being not only irrelevant but also quite irksome.
“In any case, lieutenant, digressing is only useful if you’re playing a game of three-card Monte. One person is distracted and the other person wins their money. Balance and harmony! If someone loses their money but no one else wins it, the balance is upset. And if you upset the balance, harmony is lost. If harmony is lost, it doesn’t mean anything if a jaguar wants to have big showy spots. When that meaning is lost, it becomes preposterous for me to prefer wearing a leopard skin rather than a jaguar skin because my existence would cease to matter.”
He leant in so close that the polished leather of his mask pressed against Dragan’s nose.
“Alfred de Musset. He was a master of digression. But in the end he has a way of getting to the story. What was it that he said? ‘How glorious it is—and also so painful—to be an exception.’ That’s a nice quote, isn’t it?”
As the masked man’s words echoed in his ears, Dragan’s eyes widened in confusion. Just a few moments earlier he’d been waiting for death, his cheek pressed against a boulder, and now he was being subjected to a barrage of inanities of the most irrelevant sort.
Dragan may not have objected to dying with the stamp of a searing hot boulder on his cheek, because he had done it in the name of heroism and commitment. He did, however, have enough pride to object to the ramblings of a half-naked wild man wearing a mask. First, he didn’t know the first thing about exotic animals, and second, he couldn’t give a damn about the difference between jaguars’ and leopards’ pelts. In his view, it was pointless to talk about any animal that didn’t live in the mountains, rivers and forests of Serbia. Watching them for the pleasure of a spectacle was one thing, but talking about them while in the throes of death was quite another. Dragan was of the opinion that expecting a modicum of seriousness during difficult times was a matter of human dignity.
While he had no objection to drawing on other cultures if it was done in the service of his people and country, to his mind the wild animals of some uncivilized jungle country could do nothing to serve his lofty ideals. If a symbol of speed or strength was needed, just turn to the wolf, he thought, which abounded in Serbia. True, wolves may not have spots, but in the depths of winter, is there really any need to go around dressed as garishly as a clown? In the end, he concluded that only lazy, decadent nations would look favourably on such colourful furs.
A wave of fury rushed through Dragan. He was determined to dash that daemon’s nefarious plans, even if it meant that his ruby-red blood would seep into the soil of his nation.
The lieutenant braced himself with his hands and then, as nimble as the circus acrobats who had now met their maker, he leapt to his feet with a wolf-like howl. The masked man reared back, after having instinctively punched Dragan in the stomach.
Young Dragan, whose fit of patriotic love had consumed his last reserves of strength, exhaled once from his soot-filled lungs and, believing that this time he was truly going to die, passed out.
But he wasn’t destined to enjoy the bliss of unconsciousness for long. He woke up and found himself in the exact same position he’d been in before. Not only that, he was also still facing the same mask.
The man wearing the leopard skin stood up and took off his mask, revealing a soot-covered face. He picked up a pitcher, poured a small amount of water into his hand and started to wash himself. The soot had worked its way deep into his pores, but as the strongman scrubbed himself Celal’s features slowly emerged. At ease in his leopard hide as if it were his daily attire, Celal then threw the water that remained in the pitcher in Dragan’s face.
Dragan sprang to his feet and saluted as the water ran down his face, only noticing that his right boot was missing when he attempted to stamp his heel.
“Dragan Petrovic, some rather unexpected things have happened today. Primo, hoping that I would find some survivors I went back into the tent one last time and found you curled up next to a rock. The unexpected thing was that I came upon that scene, not the scene itself. You see, there’s nothing unexpected about coming across you in the most unlikely place in the midst of chaos and confusion. Secundo, as if it wasn’t enough that the dervish blew himself up, the tent burned down and, according to my initial calculations, more than three hundred people died in the blaze along with one lion and three monkeys. Tertio, our fake dervish wasn’t the type to commit suicide—believe me, he wasn’t—but he was an incredibly irritating man, always grinding his teeth. Until this day I’ve never seen anyone who irritated me commit suicide. It seems that someone placed some explosives in his fire-resistant underpants. That was very unexpected.”
Still saluting, Dragan said, “Captain!”, but Celal silenced him with a wave of his hand and walked over to a large open-mouthed sack that was sitting in the corner. After rummaging through the sack for a few moments, he pulled out a military uniform and started putting it on.
“As you’ll recall, I was telling you that leopard hides have small, orderly spots. When you find yourself dealing with an unexpected situation, you have to connect the dots. That’s the only way to see the big picture.”
Celal carefully placed the hide on the floor as if laying it out in front of a fireplace.
“Let’s not be unfair, lieutenant. Some people see the large dots first. But coming upon the truth so quickly can be too disturbing. When you see what’s really going on, life seems to go on for ever. The worst part about it is that life no longer seems worth living, because the mystery is gone. From one large truth a thousand smaller truths emerge, truths that wise people transform into poetry and bequeath to the world. Prophets and the great philosophers are people like that.”
Celal glanced at Dragan and then started digging through the sack again, tossing things out left and right.
“Seeing as we’re not prophets or great philosophers, we don’t see the big picture. In any case, you can’t make someone become something they don’t want to be. We’re not prophets or philosophers precisely because that’s not what we desire. Anyone can become one or the other if that’s what they truly want, even if it means becoming a second-rate prophet or philosopher. But we’re not like that, are we Dragan? We’re going to set off with the small, orderly spots of the leopard, not the showy ones of the jaguar. This, young lieutenant, is what we call rationality.”
He found a pair of boots at the bottom of the sack and handed them to Dragan.
“And at the moment, the small spots are telling me that the palace is going to be raided tonight.”
Silently Dragan took the boots and put them on.
“There can’t be any other explanation for the burning down of the tent. The spots also say that the fire changed certain things. My dear Dragan Petrovic, we must go to the palace at once, but we won’t know which side to take until we get there. The universe is a balance of opposing forces and our very existence is throwing it off balance, so we have to set it right again. How will we do that? The universe will tell us how. As two survivors of the fire, we are now bound to each other by a contract signed in flames. I hope that my faith in you will not be misplaced.”
12
The Mummified Lion
“‘A LITTLE LION. Ah, a little lion. / It jumped through the hoops. / Up it jumped through flaming hoops. A little lion. Ah, a little lion. / Come, curl up beside me. My clown, what a jester is he / Always pulling off tricks / My clown, what a jester is he / Wait little one, wait your turn.’
“My governess taught me that ditty. I’d completely forgotten about it until today. I think I remembered it when I saw that the lion had burnt to death. ‘A little lion…’ May he rest in peace—although he wasn’t actually little at all. I don’t think he was as lucky as Jumbo the Elephant, who definitely wasn’t little. Six tons!… Perhaps Jumbo wasn’t really so lucky either, but his owners were, in a way. Jumbo got hit by a freight train after a performance and died on the spot. Even if you weigh six tons, a train is a train, after all. They had bought Jumbo from the Zoological Society of London for ten thousand dollars, and within a year he’d brought in six hundred thousand. But he was worth more dead than alive. When he died they had him mummified, and even more people came to see the mummified elephant. As if that weren’t enough they ground his beautiful teeth into a powder and mixed it with jelly. The richest people in New York lined up and spent a fortune to get a taste of it.
“I wonder if people would come to see the lion if we got it mummified. I’ve been thinking about that, but I don’t imagine they would. For one thing, it’s half-burnt. And we never even named the lion. It was always, ‘Lion do this, lion do that.’ But what were we supposed to do? It’s a bit chilly in here. Can you find me a blanket or something?”
Céline was talking non-stop as she walked into the room, her words echoing off the walls like machine-gun fire. With each sudden movement she made, ash came sprinkling down from her hair. Embarrassed by his broken sword, Dragan had slunk off into a corner of the room.
Celal walked over to the sack and rooted through it, but when he couldn’t find anything he took off his hooded cape and draped it over her shoulders, closing the collar with a silver chain.
Spreading out the dark blue cape, Céline laughed and said, “Thank you, Celal. Now, if everyone’s ready, let’s go. The carriage is waiting for us. We don’t want it to turn it into a pumpkin now, do we? After all, we’re going to a palace to attend a ball—of sorts.” She slipped the hood over her head and motioned for Celal and Dragan to follow her.
With Céline in the lead, they walked out of the door. In the distance the tent was still burning. A brightly painted circus caravan approached, the driver holding the reins of two white horses whose bridles were adorned with massive red feathers, like the plumes of Roman legionaries. They clambered into the carriage and set off for the palace.
Dragan leant towards Celal and whispered, “Captain, why is this woman calling you Celal? And why are you working in a circus? Is Vesna okay? What’s going on here?”
The caravan jolted as it rolled over a large rock in the road, sending Dragan careening towards Céline. When Dragan opened his eyes again, he found that he was lying with his head in her lap. Céline stopped twirling her curls and looked down at him with her blue eyes. Flustered, Dragan scrambled into the far corner.
Céline slid open a window at the front of the caravan and called to the driver: “Are we going to make it in time? Hey there, I said are we going to get there in time? Monsieur, can you hear me? Are we late?”
In the dim light, the driver’s face was barely discernible, little more than a thick, rather sloppily waxed moustache that hung over his upper lip, and a chin that hadn’t been shaved for days. The moustache twitched as he said, “Circus company… A determinant construction. ‘Circus’ comes from the Greek word for ring. Circus performances take place in a ring, so that part’s easy. ‘Company’ is a little more complicated. Comes from the Latin, meaning ‘to break bread together’. We might make it in time. But then again, we might not. It’s difficult to give a definitive answer when conditions can change so suddenly. Especially with this caravan and these horses. So who knows, we might break bread together. Or not.”
The driver’s voice was drowned out at times by the rattling of the wagon, the sound of the wind and the neighing of the horses.
Celal recognized the man’s voice. “Ah, Mr Commissioner. Your jurisdiction appears to be quite large indeed.”
“Even bigger than you think, Celal. Seeing as you’re a writer of sorts, I would’ve thought you’d make shrewder observations. True, aside from the occasional description of—what shall we call them?—‘bayonets’ in your novels, you don’t delve much into military matters. But here you are, wearing the military uniform of a captain in the Serbian army. My commissioner title is just one of my epithets. You see, Celal Bey, we spies have our own unique sense of humour. Sometimes our work of smoke and mirrors suits the titles we use. So there is no need for you to call me ‘Mr Commissioner’. ‘Commissioner’ will do just fine. But if you’ll allow me, I should concentrate on driving to make sure that I don’t roll this caravan over.”
The three passengers sat in silence. Dragan disliked foreign uniforms, and he disliked the fact that everyone was now calling the man he knew as Captain Jovanovic ‘Celal’, a name which sounded ominously Turkish to him. To make matters worse, they were all speaking French and the moustached driver had just confessed that he was a spy.
Céline shouted through the window, “Commissioner, stop. Commissioner! Stop! This guy certainly knows how to orate, but he would do well to learn how to listen… Commissioner, stop! Please stop!”
The caravan suddenly slowed and came to a halt.
Céline climbed down, followed by Dragan, who tossed his broken sword into some bushes by the side of the road.
They uncoupled the horses from the caravan. Céline and the Commissioner got on one horse and Celal and Dragan got on the other. As Dragan clung to Celal, he shouted, “Captain, why do they call you ‘Celal’?”
Clutching the reins, Celal tersely replied, “It’s my stage name.”
“Why were you at the circus?”
“I was dismissed from the army, as you know. I needed a job.”
“Why are we going to the palace?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find out when we get there. Vesna is there, isn’t she?”
Vesna indeed was at the palace, as were King Alexander and Queen Draga. Radovan, the pastry chef, was there, along with the guards, some servants, the aide-de-camp and his assistant, a number of young clerks, a few of the gardeners and a handful of stuffy generals. They were all there. But there was no electricity.
The country may have been poor, but it wasn’t so impoverished that the palace was bereft of electricity. Ever since the wiring had been installed, it had for the most part worked without fail.
A few months earlier the electricity in the ballroom, one of the first few rooms in the palace wired for electricity, had cut off during a reception at which the King and Queen had been expected. Gossip soon spread that a coup had been planned for that night, thwarted only at the last minute when the King and Queen decided not to attend. King Alexander had shrugged off the rumours, but it was then that Queen Draga ordered that her brother be crowned if anything were to happen to them.
Celal was able to make out the palace gates in the moonlight. Guards were holding up lanterns with trembling hands as they peered left and right into the night. The palace’s electricity supply had been cut off after the King and Queen returned from a banquet and retired to their chambers. Concerned, the Commander of the Guards and Alexander’s aide-de-camp had set out to request reinforcements, but to no avail—all the soldiers were busy trying to quell the chaos that had erupted in the city after the circus fire. Now he had set out lamps in the palace gardens, and ordered some of his men to patrol the street in front of the palace to prevent any assassins from sneaking inside. Ten soldiers emerged from the open gates holding lamps, their weak flames sputtering in the wind.
The soldiers started to fan out into the street, but they hadn’t got far when two white horses emerged from the night and bolted through their midst. Ce
lal leapt to the ground and was immediately surrounded by guards, but he lashed out with such a flurry of blows that within seconds they were all lying at his feet. In the meantime, Céline rushed into the palace gardens, putting out the weakly glowing lamps placed here and there by smashing them with kicks and punches.
The Commissioner fired four shots into the air and then, despite the darkness, managed to shoot one of the soldiers in the shoulder as he stood frozen in fear. The Commander of the Guards rushed out of the palace when he heard the shots, only to catch a bullet in the side. The Commissioner dropped from his horse, raced over and pressed the barrel of his gun to the Commander’s temple.
Just then, a bullet fired from a distance whizzed towards them, striking the Commander in the middle of the forehead. The Commissioner fired off a hail of bullets in reply, and soon the street was filled with the sound of gunfire, barked orders and groans of agony. Bodies thudded to the ground one after another, before a loud whinny cut through the tumult, followed by an even louder thud. After a moment of stunned silence, the palace lights came back on.
One of the horses was lying on its side, a trail of red running through its white coat. A pair of muddy boots was firmly planted in a pool of blood beside the horse.
Standing in the boots was Apis.
Dragan was still cowering in his saddle, his arms wrapped around the horse’s neck. As with many things, the meaning of darkness was quite clear to Dragan: darkness was dark, and he couldn’t see in the dark. So he reasoned that no one should expect him to fight in the dark. Now that the lights were burning again, he leapt down from the saddle.
It turned out that Apis, who now stood wiping his boots on the coat of the dead horse, had killed all the palace guards with his men and taken over the palace. He turned to Celal and said, “Glad to see that you weren’t killed in the confusion.”
The Peace Machine Page 13